


Daredevils

by QuillerQueen



Series: Love As the Moon Loves [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, guest appearance by the Merry Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2019-03-07 05:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13427367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: Queenie Regina and Robin of Locksley go adventuring together and uncover more than they expected. Written for Dark!OQ Week 2017.





	Daredevils

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be (for the most part) a playful little piece. Until it wasn't. It was also supposed to be edited before posting, but that was before I ran out of time. Apologies on both accounts.

"Jewels for a jewel," Robin smirks as he hands Regina the newest treasure never to be passed on to the poor and needy.

Another corny confession they'll laugh at, another in a long line of sappiness coated in thick layers of sarcasm.

She loves it.

She loves  _him_.

But those three big little words have yet to pass between them, and Regina waits. She wants Robin to speak them first. Not because she's afraid (she is, if only a little) or because she doesn't yearn to seize every moment (she does, and more than a little); but because she wants him to be ready, wants to let him take that step in his own time, without feeling pressured to.

And so she smirks back, arches a brow at him, curls her lips in mock disdain to mask the lovesick grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, and reaches for the necklace only to have it snatched from her fingertips at the very last moment.

"Hey," she protests. "Is that any way to treat your queen?"

"Does my queen perchance require assistance putting this unworthy trinket around her exquisite regal neck?"

She can't help it—her barely contained smile blooms into a full grin, and laughter bubbles out of her at his over-exaggerated antics.

"You spoil me so," she purrs as he gathers her hair and sweeps it over one shoulder, combing through it just once like one who just can't help himself, before he fastens the clasp.

"Why thank you, good sir," she flirts shamelessly, and his chuckle resonates against her spine where his chest is pressed close. "May I present you with a token of my appreciation in turn?"

Regina slips from his embrace and turns, throwing him a saucy wink as she reaches down her corset. Robin's eyes, dancing with amusement until then, immediately darken, and Regina almost snorts as she coaxes the enamelled dagger from where it's cradled between her breasts.

Robin blinks, fixating on the blade warm from body heat so much she needs to practically dangle the rest of her bounty in his face.

"Got the matching earrings, too. Admit defeat, Thief—and pay up."

Unlacing her boots, she leans back on the chaise and wiggles her toes at him.

Robin shakes his head and clears his throat.

"You know this isn't the slightest bit fair, Your Majesty," he says hoarsely as he settles to rub her feet.

"Why are you such a sore loser?"

"Why won't you admit your magic gives you an unfair advantage?"

"I can beat you without magic," she throws back without batting an eye.

Robin throws her an amused glance—she's bluffing, and he knows it.

"You presume to out-thief the Prince of Thieves?"

Okay, now that he puts it like that, it seems a bit of a tall order, but it won't be her first heist, and she's learned a trick or two from him after all. Besides, they like this—a bit of a risk, a bit of danger. It thrills them both. No way is Regina backing down now.

"I propose a challenge." Rising from the chaise, she pads over to her storage cupboard and removes a crystal vial from one of the many boxes there. "No magic, dawn to dusk. Winner gets extra massages for a fortnight—anywhere and any way they want. Think you can handle that, Thief?"

"To your health, Your Majesty," he toasts as she uncorks the vial and raises it to her lips. "And to my victory."

* * *

Robin picks the target with special care and a bit of tomfoolery in mind.

The abandoned estate is overgrown with ivy, its windows murky and adorned with filthy curtains, and whatever trinkets they'll find inside had better be worth the hassle. Yet the main draw of this establishment is its location. Tucked near a crossroads between three small kingdoms, it's ideally positioned for plotting heists and orchestrating raids, then disappearing across the border for a spell.

There's just one catch: someone else also has their sights set on it.

The competing gang of petty pickpockets and crude cut-purses had made themselves quite a name for swindling rich and poor alike, using not only nimble fingers and swift feet but abusing people's compassion and feeding off their trust. Robin doesn't consider himself a scrupulous man, yet still he detests them for such methods, considers them a bit, well, inferior in skill. He doesn't want them on his turf, and it's only a question of time before they'd attempt to chase him off theirs anyway.

It seems like a good idea to strike first.

It'll be a double test of skill: between Regina and himself, and between their team of two and these poor bastards who are clearly mediocre at their trade if they need to resort to such lowly means to succeed.

Oh what a glorious day Robin's to look ahead to.

Regina has gotten herself into a bit of a pickle.

Everything had gone smoothly and right to plan at first. She'd painstakingly picked the lock on a ground floor window, hoisted herself up and inside with a huff, and only broke a chair leg and a nail in the process. She'd snuck through the estate, her heart racing pleasantly, blood drumming in her ears to the rhythm of  _you're a-live! A-live! A-live_! as she combed room after room and emptied shelves and drawers and chests into the burlap sack Robin had presented her with with a shameless smirk. Yes, the plan had worked out almost boringly to the dot.

Until she reached the cellar.

She should have known by the half dozen of locks and bolts, by the chain as thick as her arm, that things were about to take a dark turn. Should have stilled her breathing to catch the faintest whimper from the inside, the muffled  _shush_  and the subtle shuffling of feet behind the massive door. Yet all her mind threw at her was what a goldmine it must be to warrant such security measures, and how wonderfully delicious things Robin would do to her for her two extra weeks of so much more than foot rubs.

The moment she broke the last lock (it took shamefully long, Robin would be all antsy in his strategically handpicked hideout and annoyed with his role as lookout idling the adventure away) and slipped into the pitch-black, dank cellar, the door slammed shut behind her.

Regina, overwhelmed by the stench of mold and urine, wishes for the dagger she'd so graciously bestowed upon Robin just this morning.

But she's not  _really_  in trouble.

Certainly not in distress.

And she most definitely doesn't need to be rescued.

It's just a closed door. She can find a way out without Robin having to rush in to extract her—and hell no, she won't let this endeavour be a a fiasco or she'll never hear the end of it.

And then something moves in the dark, closing in on her from every side. Regina flicks her wrist on instinct. Nothing happens.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_  Of course there's no magic to come to her aid—not until dusk.

Hands grab at her clothes, jostling her, and something isn't right, something about where they grasp and how they hold on tight, almost as if they were caught between trying to tear her apart and wanting desperately to pull her close in some sort of bizarre embrace.

It's when a high-pitched voice pipes up  _Shhh, they're back!_ as heavy steps stomp about the staircase and those little hands hold on to her for dear life, manoeuvring the lot of them into the darkest, most remote corner of the cellar, tripping over tattered blankets and scattered bowls, that understanding dawns on her, chilling her blood as she backs into the wall and spreads her arms to gather them around her, bony shoulders and matted hair, as if she could actually offer the protection they deserve.

But in truth, Regina is in over her head.

They don't know she's here, she realises when the door bursts open creaking on its hinges; she could run for it. Could slink to the exit before the flickering match lights the torch and reveals her presence. Could slip past and race for the main door, alerting Robin, letting him cover her with a barrage of arrows as they disappear in the forest before their adversary collects their wits.

She doesn't move.

She can't—won't—leave the others behind.

* * *

She's taking her sweet damn time, isn't she?

Stubborn queen.

Robin only hopes she hasn't gotten herself in trouble. How could she though, with an empty house? He's the lookout after all, he'd know if someone were around. Even for someone less knowledgeable about locks, she should have been in and out by now. He doubts there's such a wealth of loot it'd keep her this long. Perhaps she's planning payback for that one time he pulled a prank with her right in the middle of a heist. He's always known it's just a question of time before she sets him up in turn. And if she's having difficulties, well she'd certainly not thank him for barging in on her when she's trying to prove a point. No, given the lack of immediate danger, Robin will simply wait.

Stretching comfortably up in his lush treetop, he pushes down the urge to be part of the adventure, resolves to sit this one out as agreed, and sets out to plot a series of witticisms to tickle that terrific temper of hers later.

Footsteps approach, arrogantly trampling up the forest path, a jumble of raucous voices hurling profanities left and right.

_Well fuck._

Robin lets out a peculiar little bark—a fox's call to cubs in danger—that he'd spent hours trying to teach Regina how to return.

She never does.

Cursing inwardly and with his bow at the ready, Robin watches three men come into view, a pleading woman in tow.

"Shurrup, Nancy," roars one of the gang. "Give us a kiss."

Nancy does neither—and the man strikes her with a clenched fist and pulls a knife, its blade glinting briefly before the foursome disappear in the belly of the estate.

Things go down fast after that.

Robin lets loose an arrow, catching the armed man in the shoulder. Half a dozen others rain down on the door. Baffled but uncaring right now whence the help comes, Robin makes for the house. He trips over poor Nancy's motionless body, slipping in a pool of blood. He's hurtling down a steep staircase as shrieks of terror make his own blood curdle. Someone's on his heals, presumably an unexpected ally, out of breath and cursing  _those child-abusing sons of bitches._ The ominous meaning of those words doesn't fully register for Robin.

All he can think of is the bloody queen, bold and audacious and too bloody stubborn for her own good.

There she is now, fencing with one of the bastards (he'd had no idea she could even do that), armed with nothing but a piece of rotten wood as half a dozen filthy, scrawny children huddle behind her.

With a well-aimed blow, Regina manages to stun the rascal—

—and then her knees buckle, and with a soft cry, she sinks to the ground.

* * *

Pandemonium breaks out around them as Robin throws himself at her, shielding her from he knows not what, and dirty little hands tear at his flesh in a misguided attempt to defend their benefactress.

Robin doesn't care to explain his motives or stop the blows.

All he cares about is Regina isn't moving, and her shirt is sticky, and warm, and wet—and she's bleeding so fucking much.

"Let her go, mate," a voice booms behind him when small fists no longer pummel his flesh, the shadow of a threat clearer than day. "I said let her—"

"Do not fucking touch her!" Robin roars, whipping around, his fist colliding with a massive gut. "Don't you dare touch her!"

"R-Robin?" The man eyes him incredulously, tall and rotund with a head of curly long hair, visibly shaken but not enough so to not have had known of Robin's existence, and that's how Robin knows this bloke must be one of Other Robin's band.

"Get out of my way, I'm taking her to safety. Get out—!"

"There's no time! Let Tuck take a look. She's losing a lot of blood—"

"Yeah, I can bloody see that!" Robin thunders, running a hand through his hair and feeling cold sweat beading on his forehead. "Just—bloody do something already!"

The friar examines her swiftly, rucking up her shirt to expose the wound.

 _Shit._  It looks deep.  _Fuck._

This is all his fault. It's all Robin's bloody fault for letting her come, for baiting her, for challenging her to put herself in harm's way. She's the most bloody obstinate woman he's ever met, with a competitive streak equalling his own, and an adventurous soul that is literally his perfect match—and because of his recklessness, he's  _this_  close to losing the best damn thing that's ever happened to him.

"So?" he barks at the friar, gaining himself an odd look from the large fellow. "Can you heal her? Better not turn out a bloody crook, friar," he growls threateningly, "or I'll tear out your guts with my bare—"

"Enough! Stop acting like a prick and make yourself useful!" The burly one holds an anger of his own, never backing down in the face of Robin's, but understanding softens his words when he adds: "You're not the only one who cares about her."

They send Robin for water and he refuses with blazing eyes, swearing not to leave her side. So a boy in shabby clothes offers to fetch some while Robin kneels and moves Regina carefully, resting her head in his lap, brushing the hair from her ashen face. They patch her up good and proper, and he's glad for the friar's steady hands as he cleans the wound and stitches the skin back together. Robin's own hands are shaking something awful, fisting and gripping in Regina's undone braid.

Never in his entire life has he known such terror.

The friar rouses him from the bottomless pit of desperation he's spiralling into.

"That's the best I can do," he sighs as he rises to his feet.

"She'll live?" Robin hears the utterance pass his lips as if a stranger had spoken it, rough with tears he's unaware of shedding.

"Hard to tell. There could be internal bleeding. As long as she wakes up and regains enough strength to heal herself with magic…"

But she doesn't have magic, does she, because Robin had been fool enough to ask she got rid of it for the day. He should've just let her keep this safety net and trusted her to play fair—and even if she didn't, what the hell did it really matter as long as she was alive and well?

Children mill about, huddling together and muttering quietly as the Merry Men try to tend to them.

The stunned man, the ringleader of this stinking hellhole, is nowhere in sight.

Those bastards kept children in the basement of their lair. They murdered that poor girl on the doorstep in cold blood. For all their dirty thieving practices, there hadn't ever been evidence of violence in all of Robin's thorough research of the gang. He prides himself on being a good judge of character, but he'd massively underestimated the graveness of the situation and the depths of depravity these tossers had sunk to.

This house is a fucking viper's nest.

Using children to do their dirty work, imprisoning them like animals to force them to do their bidding! Children, for fuck's sake!

That's why Regina wouldn't get out, that's who she'd stayed behind fighting to protect.

Something shifts in him, and the savage fear, the gnawing guilt, all of the raw emotion pushing against the leaky dam bursts forth transformed to fury, a blind rage that burns to rip, tear, destroy.

He burst out of the damnable cellar and up the stairs, shoving aside the solitary man guarding the tied up villain.

No longer stunned, the prisoner leers up at Robin. He's an ugly man, inside and out. Old, wrinkled, his limbs gnarly and misshapen. Beady eyes stare maliciously into Robin's anger-twisted features, shift towards the basement, then to the lifeless body of poor Nancy covered by a sheet. And he sneers.

The message couldn't be any clearer.

Regina's pale face and torn flesh flash before his eyes; rags for clothes and battered arms; grown men abusing their power and the trust of innocents.

Robin doesn't think. He draws his—Regina's—dagger, and plunges it into the miserable, undeserving wretch's chest, piercing right through the devil's heart.

* * *

He's barely had time to wash the blood off his hands when he's summoned back inside the house.

He counts five children gathered around the bed they point him to, clearly fearful of him but smiling sheepishly at the tiny figure bundled up in the sheets.

_Regina._

She's awake, too, and thank gods above; she's awake and alive and talking in a reassuring though feeble voice.

"It's okay, Oliver. Little John will take you all to camp, give you food and some proper clothes. And preferably a good, nice scrub," she grins, making the kids giggle. "I'll come see you as soon as I can."

One by one they file out, hesitant but somewhat comforted, and suddenly it's just the two of them.

There's so much Robin wants to tell her. Where does he even start? Should he admit his guilt, all fivescore tonnes of it weighing him down, because his oneupmanship almost cost her her life as he tried to prove himself a true master of his trade with skills and finesse—and for what? Or should he begin with how fucking terrified he was for her, how desperately helpless he felt, how he ached at the thought of their fresh start ending so bitterly, so soon, before he even plucked up courage to tell her what he hoped she already understood? Or perhaps now would be a good time to allow her a peek into his past through the window of memories so awful only atrocious sights like this devil's lair could make him relive them?

"Robin?" she says with a small smile. She looks exhausted, absolutely knackered, still paler than usual but no less beautiful. In fact, she's never seemed more beautiful to him than she does this very moment. He's almost lost her, but once again she's come through, resilient as ever.

He's almost lost her.

"What the hell, Regina?"

"Excuse me?" she bristles, her smile falling, her forehead creasing with displeasure. She won't take kindly to being lectured, and that's not what he wants either—he doesn't want to fight.

"Why didn't you run? Why didn't you call for help?" it sounds as raw as he feels.

Regina sighs, reaching for him, and he finally, finally sinks on the bed beside her and clasps both her hands in his as she answers with a tenderness unlike anything he'd ever been on the receiving end of:

"You'd never have heard me from down there."

Robin just nods, his stomach clenching, and whether she sees it or not she chooses that moment to lean forward, seeking his lips. It's tender, this kiss, tender and fleeting like the brush of a butterfly's wings. When they come apart he doesn't go far, dives right back in for a peck, all of his pent up emotion spilling over and pouring into the deep, desperate kiss that won't stop unfolding—until she's breathless and his knuckles white from clinging to her.

"We could have come back for them, you know."

He's not lying or placating—they could have returned later, rescued the young ones. God, he'd have done it for her—might have done it for himself, too. He's not a monster; he just has—scars.

Regina shrugs, a gesture not at all doubtful of his sincerity, but instead an admission that she simply couldn't help herself.

"You killed that man," she says quietly. There's no judgement, no accusation, just a simple statement as she plays with his fingers.

"I did."

"How'd it feel?"

"Like justice had been served." They don't murder anymore, not since they both decided to turn over a new leaf. Still he's no regrets about this one; but the deed was more than punishment for the beast, and he tells her so. "Like I was doing something—anything. Regina, you've no idea—you were just lying there, and I couldn't help you, I couldn't even think straight, I was," he sobs dryly, he doesn't mean to but fuck it, he doesn't even care anymore, "so bloody terrified I might have killed you."

She twines their fingers then, presses their palms together, and waits to catch his eyes.

"You couldn't have," she says firmly. "I did this because I wanted to, and you couldn't have stopped me even if you'd tried. No one owns me. My decision, my consequences. And knowing both myself and you, this won't be our last adventure."

Except that's not entirely true, is it? At this point, whatever happens to one of them bears consequences for the other as well.

"I shouldn't have asked you to give up your magic, even temporarily. Could've just made not using it a rule and stuck to it."

"Follow the rules? Now where's the fun in that?" she jokes, and he appreciates the effort but it's much too soon, and he's far from recovered. And he's still not sure she fully understands.

"None of this is funny to me right now."

"I—" Her eyes darken, her face falls. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. And I didn't mean to worry you."

"I'll always worry, Regina. Maybe I haven't before, or just didn't really realise, but— Regina, I—"

The words are there at the tip of his tongue, but somehow they feel both too much and too little.

"I know," she says, pressing her forehead to his. "Me, too."

Dusk falls at last, and restored magic heals her flesh with a light almost as bright as the one shining in her eyes, touching their souls and bathing it in purest gold.


End file.
